


Tell Me I'm Pretty?

by round_robin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Dry Humping, Established Relationship, Insecurities, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-16
Updated: 2012-05-16
Packaged: 2017-11-05 11:36:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/405966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_robin/pseuds/round_robin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes was not a vain man. His pride was his mind and that's where it ended. But sometimes, he needed to be reminded just how beautiful he really was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell Me I'm Pretty?

**Author's Note:**

> Bad mood, writing it out.
> 
> Not betated or Brit-picked, finished like three seconds ago, so if you find a typo, pop it in along with your comment and it'll be seen to. Enjoy.

“John,” Sherlock said. John looked up from his book to find the detective standing on the other side of the coffee table, practically vibrating out of his skin. “Tell me I’m pretty?”

Now, Sherlock Holmes was not usually a vain man. His pride was his mind and that’s where it ended. Sure, he liked to dress well and outclass every single person down at the Yard, but it wasn’t for vanity’s sake. He was the world’s only consulting detective, and in Sherlock’s mind, that meant he had to stand out from the rabble.

No, that wasn’t the reason. One quick glance at the news papers (tabloids, mostly) spread across the table and John didn’t even have to ask why. For months now, rag after horrible rag had been running stories about the new hip detectives in town—Sherlock the impossible man that he was, and John, his assistant-slash-blogger.

Some were tame and simply recounted their cases. Others spread wild rumors about their supposed sex life—which was none of the public’s business, thank you very much—while others still were hauntingly vivid vivisections of Sherlock himself. What he wore, what bath products he used (John quite wondered which Daily Mail intern had drawn the short straw to dig through their bins) if he’d had plastic surgery, and on, and on, and on.

Most of the articles like this were stupid and tacky, and so far off the mark that Sherlock would read them aloud and laugh. There were the small few, however, that hit so close to one mark or another that it was tantamount to seeing Sherlock flayed alive for the enjoyment of the masses who wanted to love him and hate him at the same time. To know everything about him, yet scorn him for the things that made him human.

Some of these articles touched one of the few exposed nerves Sherlock still had, and every time he found one, the depression would set in. No… John didn’t need to ask. He had a more important job.

Closing his book and setting it on the coffee table, John opened up his arms. “Come here,” he said quietly. Sherlock stepped over the table and into John’s lap, his knees on either side of John’s hips. His limbs were far too long, and the way they folded up around John always made him look small. Sherlock shouldn’t look small.

Instead of wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s back and pulling him close, John placed one hand on his waist, the other going up to rest on the back of Sherlock’s neck. He brought their noses together and looked into those beautiful, impossible eyes as he spoke. “You are _beautiful_.” He said.

Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed, Sherlock let his eyes fall shut. “Tell me you love me?”

John pulled Sherlock closer until his lips met one perfect ear. “From the first moment I saw you,” he whispered. “I couldn’t believe Stamford. That he even thought someone like you would want to flatshare with me. Surely, you had offers. A gorgeous woman—or a man—hoping to get a leg over on you. You were so beautiful, I thought I couldn’t touch you,” sliding his hand up from Sherlock’s hip, John followed the curve of his back and started rubbing soothing circles into alabaster skin. “If I touched you with these hands, so rough and calloused, I thought that I might break you.” He pulled back to see wide blue eyes staring at him with singular concentration. The kind of attention Sherlock only gave to crime scenes. And it was all his now, it all belonged to John.

Another swallow, though no longer from nerves and insecurities. “Touch me?” Sherlock whispered.

John tightened his grip on Sherlock’s hips before lifting him off the couch, then turning and settling them back down. Now, he was leaning over Sherlock, with two long, glorious legs wrapped around his hips. He could feel the stirrings of Sherlock’s erection pressing through the thin fabric of his silk pajamas, and John couldn’t help his smile.

“Like this, my love?” John asked, letting one hand drift down to stroke the rapidly rising bulge. Sherlock moaned and leaned up to kiss him. John accepted the kiss, but his fingers kept working, making their way inside the silk to touch hot, beautiful skin. “Do you want me to touch you like this?” He whispered against soft lips.

Sherlock didn’t say anything, but he made a few encouraging noises. After a few minutes, the stroking wasn’t enough. They both needed more. Pulling his hand away so he could brace himself, John started thrusting against Sherlock. Both still clothed, but they didn’t need to be naked for this. They didn’t need lubrication and penetration to make this special, they never did. What Sherlock needed now was John’s words moving across his skin, and John’s body warm and firm against his. That’s all he would ever need.

Hips keeping up the tempo, John continued to speak Sherlock’s praises into the skin of his neck. “You’re beautiful,” he said. “The most beautiful man I’ve ever met. Inside and out. And your mind, oh god, if I could make love to that mind, I would. Because it’s beautiful, blindingly so, you have no idea. The way you see things is beyond amazing, I don’t think there’s a word for it. Because you do see everything Sherlock, except,” John moved over so his lips were right next to Sherlock’s ear again. “Except,” he whispered. “How beautiful you really are.”

“John,” Sherlock sighed and dug his fingers into John’s arms, holding on as tight as he could.

They didn’t need any more words after that. They didn’t need anything other than the slide of now sweat-soaked clothes against needy bodies. Nothing more than the tempo of the other’s heart beat.

It didn’t take long for the friction to send Sherlock over the edge, crying out his orgasm into the near-silence of the flat. Bucking his hips hard, John followed him until they were both exhausted and happy again.

“You know,” Sherlock whispered after a moment. “You’re beautiful too.”

John just smiled.

The End


End file.
